Kitty and the Silver Bullet (Kitty Norville 4)

I convinced Ben to dress up—suit, tie, the works. I knew he could pull out the GQ polish for important courtroom appearances and high-level meetings. The rest of the time, not so much. But we were having a night on the town, and I wanted to go all out. Who knew when we’d ever do anything like this again?

He finished dressing while I was in the shower, and I hurried because I didn’t want to be that stereotype of the woman who takes forever to get ready while the guy is in the living room glancing at his watch. Hair dried and up, makeup on, earrings, necklace, little black dress, and strappy heels. I was probably way overdressed, but I didn’t care. The dress was a clingy silk number with spaghetti straps, sexy without being trampy. I’d only worn it once before—it had given me good luck then. I contorted in order to see myself in the narrow full-length mirror, making sure the skirt was all smoothed out, that a few wisps of hair were artfully arranged around my face—and rearranged, and arranged again—and that everything was in order.

“Kitty, we’d probably better—” Ben’s steps approached just as I bent over to adjust a strap on my shoe one more time. “Wow.”

He stopped in the doorway. He stared. I straightened and stared back. The look in his eyes—I found myself blushing in places I didn’t know I could blush.

For his part, Ben was wearing his best courtroom suit, charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, with a rust-colored tie. The lines were smooth, giving him a slim, fit appearance, an image of power and privilege. His hair was a touch too long to lay slicked back, so it flopped over his forehead, with a rakish, mischievous air. Put a pair of Ray • Bans on him, he’d be downright scary. Dreamily scary.

“Wow yourself,” I said. I resisted an urge to lick my lips, but I did gulp a little.

“You, ah, clean up pretty well.” His voice seemed a bit subdued, and he’d started fidgeting with his cuff links.

“You, too.” I didn’t have cuff links to fidget with, so I laced my fingers together behind my back. The blushing was getting worse. My whole body was turning red, I was sure of it. Did he have any idea just how . . . how amazing he looked?

“Can I kiss you?” he said, kind of offhand, as if we hadn’t kissed a hundred times before and the thought had just occurred to him.

In reply, I took a slow step toward him, and another. Before I knew it, he touched my face and brought our lips together. The kiss was hot, hungry. I held him and pulled myself close to him. His hands slipped down my back, one of them moving farther, cupping my bottom. Just a thin layer of silk lay between us. And still, we kissed.

We finally pulled apart to catch our breath.

“I suppose we should do this sort of thing more often,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, whispering, a little shaky. All of a sudden, I didn’t want to go to the concert. I was still holding on to him.

He ducked his gaze. “I was going to say—we’d probably better get going. We’ll be late.”

“Yeah.” We still didn’t move.

Then, at almost the same moment

, we started giggling. I pressed my face to his shoulder to stop myself, and he hugged me, and the intensity of whatever had just happened went away. Mostly, it went away.

I said, grinning, “Hey, wanna go on a date with me?”

“Absolutely.”

We looked like a million bucks. Stalking arm in arm, we crossed the courtyard of the Denver Center for the Performing Arts, a collection of theaters in the heart of downtown, to the doors of the concert hall. We turned heads, the two of us. Like we were in a commercial for diamond jewelry or a music video. Sure, we were way overdressed compared to a lot of the crowd—why did some Coloradoans think it was okay to wear jeans to a symphony concert?—and it made us stand out, but in the kind of way that the stares told me that they all wished they could be us. My grin felt silly, but I felt better when I glanced at Ben and saw the same grin on him. The alpha pair indeed.

I even almost forgot that I was supposed to be in hiding. I kept telling myself that none of the Denver wolves would be here, lycanthropes avoided crowds like this and the vampires didn’t hang out here. I’d be fine, just fine. I didn’t wilt in the middle of the crowd. I felt on top of the world.

We collected our tickets from Will Call, were ushered to our seats, and settled in as the orchestra was tuning up. The lights went down, the conductor appeared, and the orchestra launched into an overture.

Then she appeared, entering stage right.

Mercedes Cook had ivory skin and brick red hair, the rich color and sheen of silk, rippling past her shoulders. A midnight blue, shimmering gown clung to her slim figure. Her limbs were slender, her face aristocratic, like that of a Greek statue. I couldn’t tell her height from where we sat, about halfway back in the orchestra section. She seemed to fill the stage. She seemed bigger than life.

I was close enough that the hall’s air-conditioning system carried her scent to me—the cold, clean scent of a vampire. If I hadn’t been warned, I’d have been shocked. She moved with such energy, such vibrancy. A consummate performer, she had a spark in her gaze.

I could guess her story: she’d always aspired to the stage. A talented performer, vampirism wasn’t going to halt her ambitions. Maybe she even sought out the vampirism, or encountered the opportunity and grabbed it as a chance to hold on to that elusive advantage of youth and beauty. She’d been on stage since the sixties, when her official biography set the start of her career. Maybe she’d even been around longer, a vaudeville performer or singer in the twenties and thirties who disappeared and changed her identity to start a career on Broadway. That would take a bit of research and digging. I was hoping I could get the scoop from Mercedes herself.

Vampires didn’t need to breathe. Their blood was borrowed, and their hearts didn’t beat. They existed in a kind of stasis, never decaying, and never experiencing the cellular processes of life. But they used their lungs, inhaling air in order to speak. And to sing.

Mercedes’s vocal cords didn’t suffer at all from her being a vampire. She was a belter, yet her mezzo voice rang like a bell. She sang show tunes and torch songs. Fast, jazzy pieces and slow, bluesy pieces. Some I recognized, some I didn’t. Every one of them had me at the edge of my seat. She owned that stage, and she needed the full orchestra to keep up with her. Nothing else possibly could.

She spotted me. From the stage, she looked right at me, caught my gaze, and she knew who I was, could tell what I was from forty feet away. Her smile thinned, her eyes narrowed into a sultry gaze, almost but not quite winking at me. Then she turned, and it was all part of the song, all part of the act. Every person in the audience probably imagined she was looking right at them.

Part of me didn’t trust her talent. Vampires had . . . something. Energy, power, presence. They were seductive, they spent decades practicing being seductive. More than that, some of them could entrance you with a look. Hypnotize you. You’d follow them anywhere without knowing what was happening. They lured their prey to them.